The world has no room for cowards.
Lastly no woman should marry a teetotaller, or a man who does not smoke. It is not for nothing that this “ignoble tobagie” as Michelet calls it, spreads all over the world.
Each has his own tree of ancestors, but at the top of all sits Probably Arboreal.
Everything is true; only the opposite is true too; you must believe both equally or be damned.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal Green – one more, and my bosom Feels new life with an ecstasy.
Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said – On wings they are carried – After the singer is dead And the maker buried.
There is but one art, to omit! Oh, if I knew how to omit I would ask no other knowledge. A man who knows how to omit would make an Iliad of a daily paper.
When we look in to the long avenue of the future, and see the good there is for each one of us to do, we realize, after all, what a beautiful thing it is to work, and to live, and to be happy.
Fiction is to grown men what play is to the child.
I regard you with an indifference closely bordering on aversion.
And the true realism, always and everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give it a voice far beyond singing. For to miss the joy is to miss all.
I’ve a grand memory for forgetting.
The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
The Devil, can sometimes do a very gentlemanly thing.
My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring.
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
The rain is falling all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea. – Rain.
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door; Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn Disturbs the eternal sleep, But in the stillness far withdrawn Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.
But of works of art little can be said.
Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore.